


touch of color

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Collars, Exhibitionism, John does Yoga, M/M, Possessiveness, Public Claiming, Public Scene, Wax Play, kink club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-23 00:54:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6099522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold takes John to a kink club to show John off in all his subby glory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	touch of color

**Author's Note:**

> Code16 held my hand and cheered me on through writing the first part, violentdaylight coached me through the rest. <3333

There is no such thing as a risk-free life: even so, Harold wonders if he's not taking too much of a risk for gain that's purely emotional. And yet, he finds he can't deny himself something that would so obviously and easily make John happy.

Harold's previous forays into the kink communities were as a submissive, under his Wren pseudonym. Wren is a man who can use an obvious secret to distract from his better-kept ones.

That, however, was in a different subgroup. The NYC community of sexual deviants is as vast as it's varied, which is to say, very much so: even discounting such obvious irrelevancies as groups for women and those under thirty, there is plenty of space for Harold Finch to enter without running into acquaintances of Wren.

John shifts at his side. "What exactly are we going to do?" The wariness in his voice, Harold is reasonably sure, is all for matters of Harold's security, none for John's personal safety.

"If I told you I was going to set you on fire," Harold says for verification's sake, "how would you feel about that?"

John snorts. "Just don't tie me in a way I can't get out of in a hurry."

It's sheer pedantry that makes Harold say, "Well, _some_ bondage may be involved, but nothing of that caliber." A suspicion occurs to him. "Are you aware that fireplay, done right, is completely painless?"

"Is it?" John says. Harold wishes he could tell whether John was kidding.

The establishment they're visiting now is more obviously geared towards tonight's entertainment than the places Harold frequents in his Wren persona. Those all masquerade as gentlemen's clubs, discreet and almost sexless unless you rent one of the private rooms. By contrast, here they're greeted by a nearly naked man tied to a St. Andrew's cross being flogged: and yet Harold knows the place has a strongly enforced policy against sex anywhere on the premises.

John raises his eyebrows, nodding slightly towards the cross. "Is that what you had in mind?"

"Not quite." Harold ushers John towards a locker room, which is fortunately empty.

At Harold's request, John removes his shirt. John's hands then rest on his belt buckle, and he gives Harold a questioning look. "No, keep it on," Harold says. It'd be easier not to face the particular temptation of making John climax if John stays partially dressed.

Then again, there's still the complementing temptation of making John come in his pants, but Harold trusts he can keep himself in hand. So to speak. 

"Kneel," Harold says. Watching John obey this command is always thrilling: the way he moves, but even more than that, how glad he is to acquiesce. The perfect line of his neck when John bows his head, the dreamy look his eyes get when Harold fastens the collar on.

The collar is from a specialty purveyor, custom-made.The leash Harold clips to it, by contrast, was bought in a PetMart. Harold believes in neither false economy nor unnecessary elitism.

Besides, John thinks it's hilarious. "It's for an attack dog," he told the clerk when they bought it. "Very large, still getting used to civilian life." 

"Behave,” Harold muttered. 

Harold leads John out of the locker room and into the establishment's main premises. While it's less understated than the ones he's used to visiting, it's still a relatively quiet, polite gathering. There are plush velvet sofas along the walls. Harold sits on one, directing John to sit on the floor with a subtle push. John moves seamlessly, sprawling at Harold's feet.

A small distance away, a man on his hands and knees cries out ecstatically as he's being whipped. Harold eyes the top's technique: not bad, not bad at all.

"She gives workshops if you're interested," another man remarks, sitting down at the other end of the sofa, close enough to be heard over the background noise, far enough that Harold's personal space isn't breached. "If you're looking at her sub, though, you're out of luck. She doesn't share."

"I have that in common with her, then." Harold offers his hand and his name, to make up for any perceived insult: it's best to ward off possible miscommunication at the start, and the people in these gatherings who intentionally target new arrivals often have self-interested reasons to do so.

Besides, the way John preens at Harold's possessiveness is more than worth potentially insulting a man they've never met before.

If the man is offended, he shows no sign of it. He introduces himself in turn as Ernest Greenway, airily dropping names and connections that Harold might be interested in. Harold doesn't pay too much attention. John will doubtlessly recall everything if they find a need to revisit this identity or use the information shared by Greenway.

Soon Greenway leaves, which confirms Harold's suspicions that he was, in fact, fishing for a chance at John's company. By John's lazy, smug smile, he got much of the same impression. Harold reaches down to gently scratch at John's nape. John rises into the touch, eyes going half-lidded, radiating contentment.

Harold watches the room and considers his purpose. As he suspected, John very much enjoys being shown off, especially when Harold explicitly announces his ownership of John as he does it. Some eyes are on them already, though Harold doubt they'd be approached unless he took some steps to socialize more actively.

To his admittedly biased eyes, John is arresting even in this crowd: John's physique, his carriage, how graceful he obviously is even in his stillness. Harold also has no doubt that if they went home right now, or stayed where they are and spoke to no one else for the rest of the evening, John would count it time well-spent.

That doesn't mean Harold can't do better.

In the playspace near them, the Domme helps her sub up. Harold watches them, then looks at John. "Would you like to?" He gestures at the newly cleared playspace.

John doesn't even ask what in particular Harold wants to do. He smiles, gets to his feet and waits for Harold to lead him. There's a waiting list next to the playspace, but the names on it are all crossed off and nobody seems to be waiting, so Harold figures they may as well help themselves to it.

Harold wasn't intending to do anything in particular, but he likes to be prepared, so he packed a number of accessories for their favorite kinds of play: rope for the intricate knot designs Harold favors, the flogger that makes John melt like a man receiving a massage, a pack of candles and a lighter. He looks up at the smoke detectors.

John catches the line of Harold's sight. "Wax play?" he murmurs. At Harold's nod, he says, "Won't set them off, we're good."

"Excellent." Harold takes another minute to consider. Then he unclips the leash and tells John, "Take off your pants and go to hands and knees."

There's no rush. Harold knows exactly what design he wants to achieve, and John can keep far more strenuous positions for a nice, long time. Harold can dawdle while choosing his first color, waiting for curious glances to be directed at them.

Blue is a nice color to start with. Harold lights the candle and unhurriedly drips two lines down John's back, one to each side of his spine. He works with the candle fairly close to the skin, so that his aim is accurate. That means the wax is hotter as it hits John's back, but of course John looks as comfortable as a man taking a nap.

Alright. Time to make things slightly more interesting. Harold says, "I'll want to do your belly, now."

There's a massage table right next to them, or John could lie on the floor and Harold could kneel beside him: but of course John scorns both these options, electing instead to bend over backwards so his stomach is in the air, his body curving gracefully, his weight resting on his palms and his feet.

Harold's whispered, "Show off," just makes John smile.

He picks red next, letting it drip two crossing arcs between John's hipbones and his navel; and black after, dripping a line down his sternum. He lights a plain white candle and lets it melt a bit before putting the still-burning wick right next to John's skin, smearing wax over his collarbone. John's eyes remain serenely closed, his mouth curved up very faintly.

They've attracted a few watchers now. It's been a while, but Harold remembers some things about pulling in an audience. He looks to their watchers and asks, "Any suggestions?"

"Do his inner thigh!" says a woman with asymmetrically cut pink hair, grinning hugely.

Harold gives her a small answering smile and pats John's flank. "Well?"

John smoothly lies down, braces his weight on his shoulders and elbows, hands at the small of his back, and raises his entire lower body up in the air before letting his legs spread like flower petals. His stomach muscles flex, but don't quiver: John holds just as steady as he did before.

This isn't the first time Harold's seen John in this pose. It still takes his breath away to look at him, his strength and agility, and the casual trust with which he shows Harold every part of himself.

John's hard now, bulging almost obscenely in his black briefs. Harold wants to touch him so badly that he forgets he still has a lit candle in his hand until he almost burns himself.

He recovers quickly, fetching another candle, green this time. When he gets very close to John's groin, John gives a nearly inaudible hitch of breath. 

"Alright," Harold says. "Next suggestion?"

"Draw a bear!" the pink-haired woman suggests. The person next to her, dapper in a plaid cardigan, gently elbows her and says, "His arms?"

"On the bed, now," Harold tells John. There are more people watching, their eyes lingering on John's body, on his blissed-out expression. "You've earned a little rest, I think."

Somebody says, "Aw, boo," but Harold pays them no heed. 

On John's arms, Harold makes more of an attempt at artistry, a twisting spiral pattern in black and blue and green. He carries it up to John's shoulders and expands the design on his back. Then he picks a color at random - purple - and lets it splash where it will, adding a touch of whimsy.

"That should suffice for decoration," Harold says, and pats John's side. "I'm sure others want to use the space." Sure enough, as soon as Harold and John make their way to the side, the pink-haired woman and her friend start setting up their own scene. 

Harold only has eyes for John at the moment, though: John is positively radiant, folding easily to his knees beside Harold with his eyes closed and his face turned upwards towards Harold like a plant towards the sun. 

He traces John's face with gentle fingers and says, "I take it you're enjoying yourself?"

John nuzzles Harold's hand, smiling beatifically. "I want you to come down my throat right now," he says.

Harold chuckles weakly. "I'll take that as a yes."

John pouts a little when Harold neglects to immediately take him up on this admittedly generous offer, but that barely puts a dent in his expansive good cheer.

"Later," Harold tells him, voice low. "I'm happy to share some of you with a crowd, but the rest," he strokes his thumb down John's throat, "is not for their eyes. They don't get to see the way you suck cock so desperately you can come without a hand on you, just from being taken that way, deprived of breath. They don't get to see you fall apart. That's _mine._ "

John emits the tiniest whine. On his briefs, a small, damp dot appears, spreading rapidly. "Then we better get home fast," John says, "or I'm giving them a show whether you want me to or not."


End file.
